


she promises the earth to him, and he believes her

by morrissigh



Category: 1960s - Fandom, Drama - Fandom, John Lennon - Fandom, Paul McCartney - Fandom, The Beatles
Genre: 1960s, Cynthia Lennon - Freeform, England - Freeform, John Lennon - Freeform, Other, Sad, The Beatles - Freeform, angsty, julian lennon - Freeform, paul mccartney - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-03 23:58:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12157455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morrissigh/pseuds/morrissigh
Summary: Paul stops by to surprise Cynthia after John left her in the dust on the train platform...





	she promises the earth to him, and he believes her

A single red rose with a yellow ribbon tied around the stem.

That’s how the woman in the shop sold it to me, but I think it looks quite foolish. Before I could object to this odd presentation choice, the older shop lady raised an eyebrow and said, “Wait, don’t I know you from somewhere?”  
I quickly told her, “Oh…well, no, I shouldn’t think so!”, and I was out of the shop a minute later. I could feel her staring at me as I made my way out, scrutinizing me, trying to fit the puzzle pieces together, to figure out just who I was.  
But I wasn’t in the mood to indulge her or let her guess or pose for a picture or anything like that because I wanted to come here—to Kenwood—to, I dunno, sort things out, I suppose. For Cyn or John. I really don’t know. 

He left her on the train platform when we went to Wales; we just got back a few days ago.  
Brian’s assistant told me that he had consoled her as she stood with a big, bulky suitcase in each hand, —one hers, the other John’s—tears streaming down her cheeks. 

I saw John yell out the window to her, “Tell them you’re with us! Tell them you’re with me!” And when that didn’t work he just stared out at her, stoically. He slumped down into his seat and didn’t say a word the whole ride.  
People swirled all about Cyn while she felt solitary…and forgotten. I nearly said something to him, but I didn’t; I knew he was treating her as an afterthought that day, caught up too much in himself. He’s been doing that a lot lately, treating her like she’s a ghost or invisible or something. I can see it when they’re together—well, physically together: yes, mentally and emotionally together: no. Cyn wears a long face around John, John can’t be bothered to smile at her. I really think it’s almost over between them. I feel sad…I feel heavy about it. Cynthia’s been here since the start! She’s stuck by him through so much and for him to treat her like this…

Soon, Cyn is the one to answer the door, and her eyes light up in happy surprise, “Oh! Paul! Hello, come in!”

The rose is hidden behind my back; I whip it out from behind to present it to her, feeling slightly apprehensive about the silly ribbon around the stem, “Here’s a rose for a pretty lady!”

She tilts her head and softly touches a hand to her heart as she looks down at it.  
“Ah, Paul,” she says in her gentle voice, “It’s really lovely…” She takes the rose from my hand, and presses it against her heart all the same. She smiles at me, beaming wide and bright, “Thank you.”

As we each take a seat on the couch in her living room, I ask her where John is; she heaves a deep sigh.  
“Well,” she lets out a dry laugh, “I really don’t know,” then she shakes her head, “Paul…he doesn’t tell me anything anymore.” She mindlessly twirls the rose by the stem in between her fingers. Her face is tense as she stares down at the carpet.  
I want to say something, but I don’t know what.  
“When did he leave?” I finally ask her.  
“About two hours ago…,” she says.  
I place my hand on her shoulder, she’s still focused on the floor, “Ah, well…he should be back soon, then! Wales really, uh, tired me out. I just want to be at home, now, ya know? Just want to relax; I’m sure John does, too!”  
Cyn musters a little smile, though her eyes are heavy with doubt in all that I just said.  
“I hope so,” is all she says, quietly.  
Silence hangs around us. I’m feeling weighed down…I just feel sad. This is it for them. I just know it, I know how John is.  
My eyes wander onto a photo of Julian, sat on a chair. John and Cyn stand behind him. It’s from a few years ago…I remember John really wanted to try then, for Julian, for Cyn. I remember him telling me when we were in America. It was late at night, in a hotel room. He was writing a letter to Cynthia, transferring his hopes and his promises into concrete, written words; all of a sudden, he popped his head up and told me all he was going to do, with a buoyant tinge to his voice:  
“When I get home, it’s gonna be different, ya know? Jules will have his dad around; Cyn will have her husband. It’ll be different, Macca…” He really wanted to be around. It doesn’t matter how sincere he felt about it, though, because he never came through. …

“Where’s Jules?” I ask in a brighter tone, trying to lighten the mood.  
Another sigh from her, “Poor baby, he’s ill. His stomach was bothering him all night. He’s taking a nap, now. I think it’s a little better today. We’ll see how it goes from here.”  
“Ah, no! You’re kidding, poor Jules!…Did John…um, see him at all? Check in on him?” I look to that photo of the three of them, remembering the promise he made where he said he would be there.  
She nodded, “Yes…he stopped in to say ‘hi’ to Julian when I was in with him this morning. I thought it was a little strange because John was up before noon…”  
I laugh at that, and she smiles a bit and laughs through her nose.  
“He told Julian he was worried about him,” she continues, the small smile remaining, “John wanted to give him a hug, but I advised him not to. I told him he might catch something, and then, he protested-- ‘Well, you’ve been with him all morning, haven’t you?’ And I told him, well, you know, mums are immune to that kind of stuff—illness. I mean, we always end up fixing it in the end, don’t we?”  
“It’s true, you do!”, I laugh, “My mum always seemed immune to whatever Mike and I caught, as well, ya know, whenever she set about making us feel better and all that.”  
“Yes, there you go! Mums always know how to make things right,” she says, her smile growing a bit more, “…And when I said that to John he just laughed. ‘I believe it,’ he said, ‘Jules always comes out feeling fine under your care, Cyn.’. It was nice to hear, to be honest, after days of hardly anything. Then, he told Julian he’d come back and see him later. He promised…,” she shakes her head, fearing his promise to be, once again, unfulfilled, “He better follow through. You know how he lights up when he sees John.”  
“He will…and he’ll be back soon, too,” I say, uncertainty hangs around in the back of my mind. Sure, John will return home, but God only knows when. And when he does, would he even want to see Julian?  
Julian always stares up at John, wide-eyed and awe-struck, following him around the house like a little duckling. If John’s watching TV, Julian will plop down on the floor and watch with him, much to John’s amusement— “Oh, well, Jules, the show’s halfway over, and you’ve got no context!” And Julian, of course, doesn’t care. He follows John’s lead and laughs at whatever John finds funny.  
Or John could be at the piano, banging a little tune out, eventually attracting Julian. John would playfully serenade him with something like “Georgie Porgie”, substituting in Julian’s name— “Julie Lennon, puddin’ and pie, kissed the girls and made them cry!” It seems that when John is in good spirits—which I would say is more than half the time—John and Jules get on fine, like John is trying to keep that promise he made several years ago. But other times, it’s completely the reverse. 

Once John and I were in his garden, sitting back on the patio and working out some of the lyrics to “Getting Better”. We were basically done with the song and just chatting when Julian came running out, clutching a piece of paper to his chest, making sure to hide whatever was drawn on the front of it from us. He always shows Cyn and John what he draws, and you can tell he has their talent. Cyn’s good with drawing quaint caricatures of friends and family while John’s always scrawling out funny little characters onto the closest available scraps of paper.  
John, though, wasn’t amused with what Julian wanted to show us. Right when Julian flipped over his work with a little expectant smile on his face, John went off at him out of nowhere.  
“Go back inside! We’re busy!” Oh, please, hardly. We were talking about the newest Beach Boys single and how weirdly wonderful it was. Nothing was hardcore or serious about the conversation at all.  
Julian just stared back at him, his bottom lip popped out.  
“Didn’t you hear me? I don’t want to see your stupid drawing! Show your mum or something, I don’t have time right now…,” John then waved him away, annoyance knit in every feature of his face. Well, all I could do was stare back at John, too, but not in crushed disappointment, like Julian, but in disgust. Shocked disgust. Up until that point, I had never heard John speak to Julian in that way. John wouldn’t look at either of us.  
I turned to Jules and placed a hand on his back, and he looked up to me, his eyes were glossy with tears, “It’s marvelous, Jules. I love all the colors, almost like the one of Lucy you showed me the other day!”  
Julian was quiet and just wiped away a tear that ran down his cheek with his sleeve. He said nothing, and he turned from me and shuffled away, again clutching the drawing to his chest. This time his face hung low with a frown instead of being lit up by the excited anticipation of moments earlier.  
Once Julian was inside and out of our view, I said to John, who was still staring coldly out at the shrubbery instead of me, “What was that? He just wanted to show you what he drew!”  
“Paul,” he began in a sharp tone, “he’s not your son…stop acting like he is!”  
I laughed in disbelief, “Excuse me?! Julian and I pal around all the time; I’m not huggin’ and kissin’ him like I’m his father! There’s a difference!”  
“Well…well, um…” John was flustered, he took to chewing his cheek and absently messing about with and adjusting his glasses; I could tell that he regretted lashing out at Jules, but he wasn’t going to tell me that. Instead, he muttered something like, “He should’ve known I was in the middle of something…” Then, he stood up and swiftly walked inside, to make amends with Julian. I assume that’s what he did because when John returned to join me again out in the garden, Julian soon followed and John scooped him up to sit on his lap. And John hugged him close to him and kissed him on the top of his head. …

Cyn looks down to her rose, and says, low and solemn, “I just,” she sighs, “I… I don’t know what to make of John anymore, then, she looks over to me, “Do you… feel the same way?”  
I don’t want to admit it, but I nod and let out a hesitant, “I do…” and add, “Especially when he’s unkind to you and Julian.” What happened to when John was over the moon with Cyn, like when we were in Hamburg and he couldn’t shut up about her, when he’d be counting down the days to see her again? Even a little more recently when we were on tour, Cynthia and Jules were all he’d talk about. Now, it seems as if he’s bored with Cyn most of the time, and the way he treats Julian is subject to change by the day. I can tell, deep down inside, he wants to move on, away from the family he has made, that he’s a part of, and you just don’t do something like that.

“I don’t know what to do, Paul,” Cyn says with a tearful inflection in her voice, “I really don’t. When he just…left me on that train platform, I felt so low, I felt terrible. I don’t think I had ever felt that way around him before…”  
“I’m sorry, Cynthia,” I shake my head in frustration, “I don’t know what’s with him. He’s been acting so foolish, lately.”  
Cyn begins to brush over the petals of the rose with a delicate finger, and what she tells me next seems like it has to be forced out of her, like she can’t bring herself to say it.  
“My…my mum, well, she suggested to me that, um,” she looks up at the ceiling, trying to suppress her tears, “that I…should leave John.”  
I raise my eyebrows and let out a little, shocked, “Oh.” Perhaps, that would be better for her. For her and Julian. John couldn’t be so miserable to them anymore.  
“You’re surprised,” she lets out a small, subdued laugh, “Well, I was, too when she said that to me. I told her I couldn’t and that we’d work it out. I…,” she wipes away a tear from her eye, “…I couldn’t leave John alone when he’s down on himself…because you know he often gets depressed about things.”  
“Yes, I do…” my heart feels heavy.  
“No…I couldn’t stand knowing that.”  
What a selfless way of thinking; she’d endure John ignoring her for days and days and days just so, when the time comes where he really needs her, he can turn to her because she’ll still be there. It seems John’s old lyrics really do ring true: Cynthia promises the earth to him, and he believes her; after all this time, he doesn’t know why. …

I leave after a half hour or so. Cynthia’s heart is as heavy as it is hopeful while she walks me to the door.  
“Thanks for stopping by, Paul,” she says, with a small, sad smile.  
“You just let me know when John is acting like a prat again, and I’ll straighten him out,” I say, trying to make her laugh or smile even wider, and she does both.  
Then, she looks at me and heaves a sigh. She hugs me.  
“You’re a great friend…to both John and me. You’ve helped him so much…,” she pulls away from me, her eyes are tired, but she still smiles, “You’re a good man.”  
“Ah, Cyn…,” is all say, with a lump in my throat. I hug her again; then I’m off, and she’s waving me away, and I’m blanketed by melancholy. 

As I drive back to London, I just hope that John pulls through with his simple promise; I hope that he goes up and visits Julian.

…


End file.
